Critical Role: Detour
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: Quick glimpses into how the story shifts with the characters as different classes.


So, look, just picture it for a second.

Picture Scanlan, grieving and angry and clever, drowning himself in legend and lore. Picture him walking just a little bit farther the day he should've met Dr. Dranzel, instead listening in on a whispered conversation in a tavern. Hearing a name.

It's not quite a Deal, he thinks, or maybe it's not quite a Pact. Capital letters make him nervous. But in the name there's vengeance and a promise and a distant glimmering _point_ to all this, and he slips charming and effortless into the service of a being that he's not entirely sure exists... except. Except he's quicker with his hands than he used to be, except the people he meets are discomfited and distant, except the dreams that torment him have a habit of _leaking_.

He's a lover, not a fighter, but there's something burning in his blood and he says, "It'll be worth it." He says, "This has to be better."

Picture the twins, unwanted, unwelcome, under the roof and the thumb of a father who sees the strangeness in them and wants it near because it's _his_. Picture a studious Vex stoking her gift for performance, for illusion, weaving tapestries of lies and half-truths. Picture a silent Vax finding solace in the forms of the creatures that lurk in the city's shadows, championing a neglected and distasteful wilderness.

Vex sings, sometimes, to ground herself, to distract, but it's the words, the stories, the tales that hold the real power. All the world's a stage, she thinks, and you can get so very far with a good performance. In stories, you are whatever you say.

Vax shifts, takes new form, reinvents himself as rats and alley cats and silent bats, perches as a mangy crow on the finely trellised architecture and watches and waits for his chance, one more opportunistic scavenger.

After they run, he braids her hair and he tells her, "I don't know what we're doing anymore," and she tells him, "But this isn't how the story ends."

Picture Percy, idle and bored, neglecting his family's religious training to tinker with machines and ideas without purpose. Picture the night he starts to turn back as his sister falls to the arrows, feeling the flare of warmth in the holy symbol over his heart. Picture him running all the same.

When he comes back to himself, gradually, on a fishing boat surrounded by strangers, every time he reaches to heal a wound or cure an illness, there's a distance to the familiar magic, a distortion. He can't seem to keep warm. He can't seem to remember how it used to be. He doesn't dream, not anymore. He doesn't build.

He reaches for his holy symbol, expecting it to crack or shatter, and he says, "I'm still here." He says, "I don't understand why."

Picture Keyleth, idyllic and carefree in the knowledge that she doesn't possess the druidic abilities so valued by her people. Picture her discovery of a sudden surge of magic, a talent and a spark that's _not quite right_. Picture her father poorly concealing disappointment and distress at this fluke of birth, this arcane, uncontrolled magic that tears at the fabric between planes instead of mending.

She's strong, she knows, and there's really no reason to expect she won't be able to help her people with her newfound abilities. There's really no reason why she shouldn't be able to succeed her father, to follow in the fading footsteps of her mother. Just because the magic's wrong doesn't mean she is. She can save them all if they'll only give her a chance.

She reaches for the power, the wilderness in her mind, and she says, "I can do this," and, with a frustration and a longing that frightens her sometimes, "I _will_ do this."

Picture Pike Trickfoot, unrepentant prankster, falling thoughtlessly into the worst of the habits that earned her family their name. Picture Wilhand taking her under his wing, trying in vain to draw Sarenrae's attention to this too-clever, quick-fingered girl.

She steals away in silence to the city limits, watching the stars from the ramparts, wondering at the silence in her mind, knowing she should feel the emptiness as a void, knowing she should want more. But there's a comfort and a safety in the shadows, and besides, she doesn't especially want anybody shining a light in all her dark places.

She steals a merchant's purse just to prove she can, grinning at Wilhand's exasperated groan, and she tells him, "It's all right." She says, "I've always been a bit of a monster."

Picture Grog, nearly dying for the act of saving Wilhand because it was the right thing, because there should be glory in battle and that wasn't by any means glorious. Picture Wilhand's surprise when his frantic prayers for healing are met with a warm sense of amusement and familiarity.

And look, it's not like Grog has ever been the religious sort, but he's pretty good at sticking up for people and he knows a thing or two about redemption and second chances. So sure, he's not good all the time, he fucks up more than he should and has to deal with the disapproval of a deity, but honestly that's not nearly as scary as the disapproval of Pike, so he's getting better at it. He's trying.

His big fuck-off sword glows when he thinks about new beginnings, and he says, "Sometimes you get to choose."

He says, "This is my family now."


End file.
